"Thank you, honored steward," you begin, inclining your head. "Did you know—as I think about gratitude—there was an elder thinker, one Ponninab by name, who felt that—"
"It's 'Pohn-ee-nahb.'"
You frown. "What did I say?"
"'Pony-nab,' like a horse-thief in training might attempt. Which leads me, as a scholar of Ponninab and the Discoursers more broadly, to think that I'm going to quite enjoy hearing your interpretation of the sage's views on gratitude."
You feel your face go white. You know but a tidbit of Ponninab's philosophy and next to nothing about the rest of her intellectual kin. You should have known better than to start pontificating about a thinker you scarcely know. "Perhaps I should be asking you," you say with a deeper bow.
No such fortune. Malodoro insists on hearing your parbaked lecture of the teachings of Ponninab without offering any insight or commentary. The look of frozen disdain she directs at you the entire time is enough to swear you off philosophy for ten lifetimes.
"That'll do," she says with a sigh, taking a seat at her desk. She jabs one hand towards the empty chair. You sit opposite her, slowly, struggling to read her feelings.
Onward